Michael stroked her cheek. "You don't have to answer now. We're booked here two nights."

"I know." She unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket, stripping it off his shoulders. She then removed his shirt, leaning up to kiss him, her tongue finding the contours of his mouth. Her hands felt around the rippled muscles of his front and side, creeping up his sides and pulling his head towards her. She guided him around and he lay back, her easing off his pants off while he reclined. She slipped her dress off her shoulders, it dropping to the ground, shedding the rest in the same pile.

Michael watched his svelte young partner with the moonlight throwing light across her body, fingers grazing her thighs as she climbed on top of him, her curls bouncing on her shoulders as she removed the clip. "We've never done it in the dark before."

"Is that better or worse?"

"I always love seeing you when we make love."

She leaned over to the side table, turning on the lamp. As she returned to straddle him, he reached in to rub between her thighs, causing her to moan.

"Especially when you look like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you enjoy me pleasuring you. It's very sexy."

"You're not getting bored?"

"Why would I ever get tired of you?" his fingers traced the pink tips.

She sat back, sliding on top of him. "We've been going for a while."

He felt the rushes from her light frame riding him, "This has never felt better."

With the whole of New York spreading into the distance, the lovers felt on top of the world.

As she exhaled and leaned down over him, he wrapped his arms around her and rolled her onto her side, kissing her delicately.

"I just thought maybe…you'd want to try something different. By now."

"You want to?"

"I'm open to new things. I don't mind."

Michael murmured to himself, then stood up and lifted her from the bed, carrying her in the dark. He flicked the switch with his elbow, finding themselves in an enormous bathroom with a spa, and lay her inside on the edge. He set the tub filling, poured in some liquid from the bench, and returned to the room with a bottle and two glasses. He handed her a half full one and slipped into the spa beside her, pulling her onto his lap.

As the tub filled around them, he took the puff from the side and generously squeezed the ooze into it, and started lathering around her torso.

"Nice?"

"Yeah." She responded half-heartedly. She felt him run a hand between her thighs and start stroking. "Yeah, this is a bath I could get used to."

He smiled mischievously, and felt behind him, before his hand diving back under the filling water.

She gasped and arched her back, grabbing onto him.

"More?"

"Yes…Yes!"

He brought her chin towards his with his free hand, kissing her deeply, his desire rising by the second, as she clung to him. He let go of her chin, and slipped down to go inside for the special spot.

Maeby withered in his arms, her body shaking like a leaf from his touches, panting moans into his mouth. "Michael!" She gasped over and over between breaths.

"You're so beautiful." Michael kissed her neck and chin.

Maeby shuddered twice, flailing in his arms as he held her against him.

"I went twice, how did you do that?"

Michael laughed and smiled, turning off the water and setting the bubbles. "I think you might be underestimating me."

She wasn't. Michael was good at many things, including calculating probability. And having calculated the high probability he would need to be able to offer something different to Maeby, he had just been madly trying bone up, something else he was good at.

His lips and tongue met hers hungrily as he went inside her, his hands tweaking and pulling, his mouth catching her groans, his arms catching her contortions as she bounced on top of him. She broke off and he lay his head back on the edge of the spa, watching her smooth back from the bottom of his vision.

Maeby breathed deeply from his touches and the pleasure from her gyrations, enjoying his strong arms wrapped around her.

He closed his eyes and focused solely on making the moment, and the feelings surging through his body, last forever.

She exhaled, "It's feeling different…this time."

"I think because I feel so good." He staggered. "Oh, Maeby…"

As he reached his end point, he guided her shoulders back onto him. "Are you there?"

"Almost…"

He reached down and rubbed until she let out an almighty cry, simultaneously as he flopped backward himself in bliss.

She shuffled next to him, pushed to start the bubbles, and leaned in. "We have some amazing sex."

"I'm glad I'm giving you a good time."

"It's not all you."

Michael grinned cheekily, then added, "I love making love to you."

"Why do you think we're 'making love'?"

"Because I love you, and every time we do it I feel it through every ounce of my body."

"Sex is love for you?"

"In the past with some women, maybe not. But with us, of course, isn't that what it means to you?"

Maeby took a swig of her drink. "And that thing under the desk?"

Maeby knew she had him there.

"You have no idea how good that felt."

"Muh-huh." She raised a brow, and moved to the opposite side of the spa.

"Okay, would you have done it if you didn't love me?"

Michael knew he had her there.

"I wouldn't go there, but also, what about you spending tens of thousands of company dollars bringing me here?"

Maeby knew he had him there.

"What about you getting arrested in a government building for launching paper-based projectiles?"

And so on.

"What about risking getting punched, in the face, for continuing to date me?"

He grinned. "To be with you, and I confess, I did it because I love you. Now, what are you going to do?"

Maeby shrugged again. "I see."

He dashed over to her corner of the tub, and Maeby evaded him by slipping around, which he then countered. She went under his arms and around, narrowly missing his scooping arms. But his footwork outdid her, and he bear hugged her from behind and fell forward, as they both sunk into the bubbling waters.

As the bubbles burst as the sun did over the horizon, the lovers set off beyond their bubble to see the city. At a time that had suited them.

Micahel and Maeby walked into the main hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, only to find the enormous queue snake before them.

"Oh, it's the rare civilisations exhibition."

"Well, I guess someone's gotta care about holes." Maeby mumbled.

"Perhaps we should wait and see? Can't hurt?"

But two hours and four families later, it did.

Maeby engaged stretching manoeuvres. "Is there another one on the list?"

"The Museum of Modern Art is not too far from here."

Which is where they went. And found the queue less daunting.

"I'm starving. Did we eat before?"

"We were doing other things." Michael beamed. "I think the food is on the top floor."

"I hope something is." Maeby gazed with slight contempt over walls of photos of various naked torsos.

As they traversed the landing, Maeby stopped dead.

"Oh my gosh, it's the soup cans! Look, Pea and Ham! And Cream of Mushroom! You know how many actors had copies of these things…"

Michael smiled, wrapping his arms around her, inhaling her scent.

As Michael gazed at one of Andy Warhol's most famous creative expeditions, he clutched tightly in his arms his proudest life expedition. Admired from afar for many years like the soup cans that adorned the wall, who had let him take her many hours from home, cupping his arms around her waist, yielding to his soft kisses on her neck, and how he created a sense of wonderment in a woman whose default response was sarcasm. And the wiley woman of many smarts who had tried so hard to avoid dependence on the decedent disparates of her life was enjoying, perhaps too much in the back of her mind, being nuzzled and caressed by this man of greater life experience than herself, who gave her a sense of security.

Her smiling eyes met his over her shoulder.

Which, if it was an illusion, as she kept telling herself, kept getting buried behind his blue puppy dog eyes.

Barely a breath from his, she waited, entranced in his gaze.

His eyes vacated to the neighbouring space, and he stepped away, and walked into the next room. "C'mon." he whispered.

The walls were strewn in the swooshes of the impressionists, a style not remote from mainstream galleries, but one which MOMA relished.

"They're lovely." Maeby's eyes wandered the room, slowly taking in the space around her. She then turned and gasped.

The crowd parted before them, and before their eyes hung Starry Night by Van Gough.

"It's so beautiful." She clasped Michael's hand, fingers kneading his calloused palms.

As they stepped towards it, the glorious swirls of blues jumped from the canvas, an inspired starry, starry night, framing the darkened field below it. And the lovers left the halls to a sky of blue and grey of the sunny day.

"Any idea what you want to do next?" Michael queried.

They swung and clutched mutually as they walked gaily under one of the ornate bridges of Central Park, finding themselves slowing at a junction, and stopping near a tree as a gray squirrel darted among the limbs of the tree.

"Wow, one of those squirrels, I haven't seen one of those since Massachusetts." Maeby marvelled.

"You miss it?"

"Yeah, some of it. I mean, California is nice but, I have so many memories back there."

Memories, like small grey rodents scampering around tree branches, can be deceiving.

A young Maeby had sat neatly on the edge of her bed in the baby pink party dress, reading a book.

"Maeby, can you come here?" Lindsay had stood in the door. "Everyone's waiting for you at the party!"

She'd eagerly followed her mother out the front of the large Colonial style house, when Lindsay then handed her a sign. "Hold this sweetie, people don't know where to park!"

Through her legs had dashed a small furry creature, which Maeby had only caught sight of disappearing into the bushes.

But she had grown a little older, and a little wiser, and had learned a bit from the glimpses of the environmental fundraisers her mother hosted.

The rodent dashed down the trunk and zoomed towards them.

"Rat!" Maeby shouted, yanking Michael sideways, finding themselves tumbling to the ground, Michael on top.

"Are you okay?" Michael quickly pulled her up, looking all over her.

"Perhaps Massachusetts wasn't so good after all."

Inspecting the gashes on her arms, "Looks like that'll be enough rats for us for one day."

And the end of the day's indecisiveness, so Michael made a decision.

Back at the hotel, Maeby went in first into the room, Micheal shutting the door and slipping his wallet onto the sidetable. Maeby returned, gazing up into his eyes.

"What?"

Her lips parted, tongue wetting the edges.

"Perhaps we should have a shower." He eyed the grubby scrapes on her arms.

Maeby turned, pulling all her top layers in one swoop, Michael trotting behind her to the bathroom, his face lit up.

The shower raining down upon them, he gazed down wistfully into her eyes, holding her against him. She lightly kissed him, pulling away, causing him to break into a grin.

"You have the most beautiful smile. If I haven't said that before."

He turned the water off, and they alighted. She dried his torso, arms, and legs, lovingly rubbing and caressing.

"Your turn." He dusted her gently with the towel, dabbing her scraped arms. After a moment, he swooped in and scooped her up, carrying her to the bed, laying her legs over the edge. He then kneeled down, his tongue starting to explore.

"Michael…" She moaned, singing in octaves, over and over again. "You're so good…I love you Michael…"

Michael murmured through his activity, causing Maeby to gasp and swallow between the breath.

"I love you…keep going…" she squealed from the sensations, her high rising with every repetition, until she shuddered. "I love you Michael…"

Maeby felt very naked as Michael stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and gazing at her open and unclothed body.

She pushed up with her hands, kneeing down in front of him.

"No, um, can you turn around, on the bed."

"Of course."

Her legs spread apart, her smooth back and mop of hair contrasting against the bedcover. He ran an index finger down her spine, kissing a trail, and up over her generous hips. She panted in reverie.

"Are you going to?"

"You want me to?"

"I want you to make love to me, Michael."

He hesitated, and slipped his hands around her ribs, planting light kisses in her shoulders and neck, pulling her up, trailing slowly around her neck, chin, as she cooed with pleasure, and holding his open lips from hers, gazing into her wide, softening brow eyes.

Within her, she felt the anticipation building by the second, her lips diving onto his, seeking, yearning kisses, noises from the back of her throat going with them.

He guided her backwards onto the bed, climbing on top of her, and butterfly her cheeks, nose, and mouth with kisses. Staring lovingly into her eyes, he slowly entered, then closed his eyes, engaging in a drawn out kiss, keeping locked on as he built his rhythm.

Her body felt electric as his calloused hands gently stroked and danced over her flesh, involuntary moans escaping from her throat. Her heart pounded all the stronger as his hands traversed her rib cage, her mouth widening, tongue gently seeking his, kneading and playing with the tip, for what seemed to be forever, her fingers gently digging into the hard ripples of his back.

As the energy built, she moaned louder and quicker, and he broke off the kiss, curling an arm around her. He sighed and smiled as she slowly opened her eyes. "My beautiful Maeby. I love you."

"I love you too, my Michael." She whispered back, then curled backward further, moaning from ecstasy, again, and again, her head spinning from the deep sensations.

He kissed her flesh as she continued, finding her pink tips with his tongue, sucking and nibbling.

"Michael, Michael!" she shouted as her body shook in his arms, and he returned to her lips, moaning heavily as he felt his release, calling her name into her mouth.

She looked up at him. "That felt…amazing. I don't think it's ever been so intense before."

"That's what it's like making love."

She looked away, and he rolled them onto their sides.

"Seriously. Is it the speed, or…"

"A bit…but it feels that way." He felt her heart pound through her ribs, fingers pressed into the skin. "Are you beat too?"

"Oh yes, master of sex, you've made me all beat." She winked at him.

He did have that one coming from a few hours earlier.

"I can't help it if I'm good." He retorted.

She then wrapped her arms around him and nestled into his chest as he flattened onto his back, as they drifted into sleep.

For the busy business travellers to New York, day turned to night, and night to day, as Michael awoke to the rising sun, blinded by the light.

Maeby and Michael stepped outside the doors of their hotel, The Brighton.

"Damn, left the card upstairs."

"Yeah, can't go far without that!"

This business trip needed to be entirely on the card, after all.

Maeby's phone rang, and she hit the silent button, letting it ring out. A few seconds later, it rang private, and she hesitated before she answered. "Hello?"

"Maeby, hi. Can you talk?"

"Yeah, what's up?"

"Are you with him?"

"Who?"

"Him. You know who."

"Yes…"

"Where are you? It sounds noisy, are you in LA?"

"ahh…"

A truck passed by, blasting from its speakers, "New York's finest coffee, bagels, hotdogs, between 8th and 9th avenue on 43rd!"

"New York?! What are you doing there?"

"Um…"

"Are you sharing a hotel room?"

George Michael couldn't contain his reactions and let it be known over the line, which made the conversation even more comfortable.

George Michael made a gagging sound. "No wait, I really don't want to know that. Just don't tell me anything."

"I wasn't going to. Have you set a date with Rebel yet?"

"No. Maeby, do you know how far from home you are? From the family?"

Maeby's heart sunk, and from feeling on top of the world not five minutes earlier, noticed how the world seemed to be towering over her, shrunk to an ant in a neighbourhood of giants.

"George Michael, please, work it out with Rebel, okay? Don't do this."

"I'm not the one doing anything to anyone."

Maeby listened to the engaged signal before removing the phone slowly from her head.

Returning through the glass doors, Michael exclaimed, "Got it!" He noticed Maeby. "What's wrong?"

Maeby remained hunched over. "Nothing. Where are we going?"

"Rockefeller."

"Sounds good, we can do the [Beep] tour too." He reached out to grab her hand, which she folded into her arms.

"The [Beep] tour? Which will cover such shows as [Beep], [Beep] and [Beep] [Beep]?"

"Wait, how come other networks are being censored, we're not on FOX anymore."

Considering how this episode opened and continued for quite a while, we're as confused as they are.

As they stood on top of the world, gazing out across the city, Maeby listlessly stared out through the panes of glass. Michael came up behind her.

"You were on the phone before."

She didn't respond.

"Look at me."

She turned around, her eyes betraying any confidence she tried to keep.

"It was him, wasn't it?"

She again didn't respond, and didn't need to.

He turned, taking his phone out of his pocket.

"No, wait, don't, you'll make it worse."

He gazed back at her desperate eyes. "He's my son. Apart from the fact he's gone and upset you, I raised him, and not to be like this." He reacted sternly.

Michael was a man first, but always a father second.

Maeby disappeared in the other direction.

Michael listened to the phone dial, and hit voicemail. He then tapped and swiped his screen several times, before re-dial, and the call was picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hi, son."

"Oh dad, you're coming up as private."

Like Bluth son, like Bluth father.

"Funny that. So you talked to Maeby earlier?"

"Yeah, what of it?"

"She seems rather upset, I would hate to think you'd said something deliberately."

"Of course not, I just told her, that she's an awful long way from her family at the moment."

Of course Michael knew what that meant, as he knew the impact it had on someone living in an emotional shell for most of her life.

"So if she had recorded it on a Dictaphone without telling you, that's the entire conversation?"

"What's a Dictaphone?"

"It's a recording thing."

"Why wouldn't you just record it on your phone? And Dad, I hate to be 'that person', but I'm an adult, and you aren't the conversation police."

"And I hate to say you are 'that person', but you're already in a relationship, why are you going around upsetting others now? Rebel chose you?"

Choices are a bit like sandwiches, or in New York, Bagels. Sometimes you'll make your own, and sometimes, someone else will make one for you. For a price. In his youth, Michael was often asked to make choices for others, and never was he happy making them.

A young Ron Howard had walked up to the banana stand. "Hi, give me whatever's popular."

A younger Michael had frozen, eyes dashing between the two choices he had to make.

Years later, an older Ron Howard in a 90s cap had walked up to the stand. "Give me whatever's popular."

George Michael had frozen, but from the corner, Maeby had reached over, dipped a banana in chocolate, and then placed it in Ron's hands. "It's nuts that aren't popular. Hey, aren't you Ron Howard?"

"That's my sandwich to make."

"You make whatever sandwich or banana or whatever suits you, but don't upset my girlfriend in the process. Bye, George Michael."

Michael found his girlfriend in the roof's house of glass.

Maeby stood staring out the window, ignoring Michael's approach.

"He was out of line."

"It was my line."

"If we don't draw any line, he'll keep going over it. I just want you to be happy."

"Why does it have to be this way..." Maeby murmured.

"I can't bear to see you like this. Why don't we go find something to eat? Sandwiches?"

"I'm not that hungry, you might need to finish mine."

"I'm always up for finishing each other's sandwiches."

The tourists found themselves in a New York diner, sampling New York's finest sandwiches – the pastrami on rye, and of course, the New York spin on a banana- the banana split.

Michael and Maeby stared at the icecream-laden goop doused in chocolate sauce and dripping in nuts.

"They do focus on this city being the 'big apple'."

"They need to work more on their other fruit." Maeby poked at it.

"Maeby…I know something's still bothering you. We need to talk this through, you know."

She turned to him on the bench, "All that stuff before, I know that's not you. But generally, like with the desk thing, I don't know why you get so crazy some times. It's like you're a different person around me? The adult Michael disappears and I get someone who seems, younger than me almost."

Michael stared into the distance. "I thought you would have said the generational gap was the problem."

"No, perhaps us living together for years mean that gap never opened up."

Or Michael was always so distracted with the Bluth Company and the Bluth Family he never had time to entertain hobbies.

"I don't know, I'll think on it." Michael's phone beeped. "You know, I wish this thing would leave me alone, just for a weekend."

"Wouldn't mature Michael stay glued to it?"

"But did mature Michael ever have a girlfriend?"

"He did, once or twice?"

"Wow, I think you remember those times better than me."

Tragically, part of Michael wasn't being sarcastic.

Michael dug into the mucky banana. "We should at least try it?"

"You first." She instructed.

He took the spoon to his lips and savoured the goop. "It's no Bluth banana, a more nuts would really tide it over."

"Nobody likes the nuts. A fair number of people rejected them."

"So that was the answer." He mused.

Answers among questions are hard to find, but sticking firmly to answers certainly helped the Bluths, as Lindsay had found out on her campaign trail.

At the ragged campaign HQ desk, Lindsay sat between the mountains of binders.

"Two hundred and fifty thousand, ma'am." The staffer had prompted.

"What do they want?"

"They want you to 'consider' a native territory declassification program."

"Who are these people?"

"I think they have something against love."

Lindsay had read the brief. Apparently they ran a small establishment called the HateLove Hotel, and couldn't get permission to start building another establishment close to the Nevada border due to existing land claims, which had meant they had let certain sections of the film industry in to use their building as they were 'leaking' money. Or so they said.

"Meaning?"

"You'd be making sacred land, non-sacred."

"And the local first peoples?"

"They wouldn't be enthusiastic about it."

At that point in the campaign, Lindsay was down to her dimes, and counting her nickels. They hadn't yet called in the Bluth bailout, and strategically, needed any money they could get. Yet Lindsay knew, if she was to make an inch of political mileage, some things had to be sacred.

"No. Reject it."

Which was fortunate, as it would have cost her a fortune.

Lindsay sits down at the table of people dressed glamorously, but with touches of feathers and leather in the huge underlit banquet hall.

"Lindsay Bluth, I'm Topena, from the Chenut tribe."

"Great to meet you."

"It's excellent you agreed to be on the first nations table for tonight."

It was excellent, and it was also news to Lindsay, especially as she'd just eyeballed a full table of journalists nearby. Lindsay's PA wasn't entirely focused, as a temp not being paid by Lindsay's campaign, as there was no money. So small details like being on a table of First Peoples would fall off the radar. But her staffers would then do their jobs.

A staffer slunk up beside Lindsay. "Ma'am, forgot to mention, we also had a call from Tobias."

"Did it go to voicemail?"

"Of course."

"Good."

A future politician has to have their priorities right. As did businessmen. Michael and Maeby found themselves in a dark bar, later in the evening, running up the company tab.

"At least this place has some decent alcohol." Maeby stirred her cocktail. "And somewhere to sit."

Michael and Maeby had some trouble finding a bar that would either serve cocktails, or seats, and Michael's dancing was amusing to Maeby…the first few times.

Michael had flailed his arms while his knees went in random directions, with Maeby trying to compensate by bopping her joints to the beat of Alive by Goldfrapp, as his movements had earned stares from around them.

"Michael, Michael, why don't we get a drink."

"No, it's okay, I can dance with you if you want, man, I'm really getting into it here! "

He was certainly getting into something.

Maeby had glanced around, seeing the stares he was getting, "No, seriously, it's okay."

But Maeby had convinced him to look that one bar further, and they had found something slightly more homely with some decent alcohol. It was New York, after all.

"I like the music here though."

Michael leaned around the booth, curling his arm around Maeby. A familiar song about Phoenix pumped through the speakers around them in the darkened bar.

"I thought about your question. I feel like I never have before, I have all this energy. And the weird thing is, I look in the mirror and see this old man, and I don't necessarily recognise myself at first because I feel like I'm your age. I'm feeling alive again. You know, being near you is like an escape from the world, when I'm near you I know I'm coming home. You're my Phoenix."

"Hot and barren?"

"Yeah, it kinda disappointed me too."

Leaving Phoenix airport, Michael had stumbled around in the blinding heat, and noticing a cab straight in front of him, went to open the door. He then quickly recoiled his burning his hand on the cab door, and dashed back inside of the cool airport.

And Michael hoped Maeby was only one of those things. He knew she was at least one.

"Well, the first time." He smiled to himself.

"I think I know what you're trying to say though. I know how much moving in means to you." She sipped her drink.

"It's totally up to you. I would never want to drag you into a home you wouldn't want to be a part of."

"That's not it…it's complicated. But I know you understand."

He lay his palm over hers.

While the joins were being strengthened in New York, the cracks were starting to appear for the Bluths back in California. Or at least one crack reappearing.

Lindsay affixed her arms to her hips, standing behind her desk. "There was ten million dollars from one donor, and you didn't mention it to me?"

"It was from our company. And it was twenty." George Senior shuffled his weight.

"You do know there are laws around donations, dad?"

He shrugged. "What's a few million between friends? I mean, you can't even get a good yacht for that money nower days…"

"It's just one small issue. I have a journalist on the phone."

"He sounds like a crackhead, I wouldn't take him seriously."

"He's really cracked some big stories, I don't think it's wise to leave this alone. We can't just snap our fingers and make it go away, twenty million is bound to crackle. If we don't do something, something will pop." She picked up the phone. "Hello Goran."

"Hello Congresswoman, how goes the family? Still making out?"

"It's been quite full on. How are you, breaking big stories there?"

"Sure. Nothing quite as juicy as the Bluths doubly in bed with each other though."

"Sounds like a tabloid writers' steamy dream. But the funding isn't coming from that direction."

"Looked like simple arithmetic to me, Congresswoman."

"Oh Goran, are you really gor-en to crack anything by talking to me? Our accountant makes brilliant pie charts, showing the full ins and outs of our pies, pies we give to IRS, and from all of those, most of that pie is from a huge array of sources."

"Well show me your figures, if truly these are pies worthy of discussing."

"They're not. You keep cracking away, Goran. Bye."

A knock sounded at the door. "Come in."

The wirey receptionist stuck her head around. "Group of party members on the phone, for the western branch four o'clock policy discussion meeting."

Lindsay rolled her eyes. "How useful. Come in and set my end to mute when I say so."

"Couldn't they disendorse you?" George Senior queried.

Lindsay leaned around as the woman fiddled with her desk phone. "I'm not taking advice from a group of nobodies when I've earned fifty million from various interests." She nodded at her staffer. "How are all of you? I'm really excited to hear your ideas. How about you all go around the table, and one by one talk them through and we do discussion after?"

"Sure!" The voice replied over speakerphone.

Lindsay nodded at her staffer, who again fiddled with the phone. "Get this whole funding thing out of the media. Run something about the burial ground."

"And poison the well of your funding?"

"They'll be fine. "

They were fine, in the other sense of the word, but they were half way across the country, and no-where to be found. Until the national bureaus picked up on the story.

"National first peoples groups would be turning in their graves, as the controversial Bluth family build over a sacred American site and attempt to fight Washington's attempts to keep our nation's heritage…"

Which Michael would have known had he been checking his emails, something he'd sworn off for the weekend as he swooned with his girlfriend instead. That was instead and until they were located by the gaggle of reporters that are based in New York City, some of whom are based in the [Beep] section of Rockefeller. I can't believe we still need to censor that.

A long lens camera zooms and focuses on Michael and Maeby wandering down a street holding hands, as noise around the camera indicates it is part of a throng.

"And we have just located the CEO of the company, and will be seeking a comment."

George Senior watched in horror from the master bedroom's bed, and quickly dialled his phone. "They're on TV…You told Michael, right?"

"Yeah, I emailed him. I haven't heard back, though. Haven't they gone somewhere remote?"

From the throng, one reporter took the lead. "Michael, Michael Bluth! Why is your family building over Native American heritage?"

Michael gasped, shellshocked, and quickly released Maeby's hand "The Bluth company denies any impact on Native American heritage, we have stopped building pending the decision of the government."

"That's not what the association has said, in fact they say you've desecrated sacred land."

"We completely deny the allegations, we have been above the law at all times."

"Complying with the law." Maeby added.

"Yes, really complying. Compliant." Michael held his arms behind his back.

On the screen, Maeby climbed into the taxi before Michael joined her. "And Michael Bluth has left the scene with his daughter…"

George Senior looked on in shock at the penthouse TV. "[Beep]"

Lindsay looked on in awe. "Fantastic." She swivelled in her desk chair towards her staff. "We've bought another week."

But chaos was not only to come from one direction for Michael Bluth. In fact, another Bluth had designs on him.

Rebel walked into the modern living room, her hair down and curled. "What do you think?"

"What if you tied it up?" George Michael eyed the look.

"And added a fringe! Of course!"

George Michael sat back deep into the sofa, his legs splayed apart, shoulders hunched forward. Rebel returned with a bouffant and her red curls cascading over her shoulders, a prominent fringe, pedal pushers and six inch wooden sandal stilettos.

"I gotta show this look to the girls!" She flopped down onto the couch, crossing her legs, and flicked her iPad screen.

"Women's shoes…maybe I should go into them." George Michael mumbled.

Rebel swiped her screen. "Sweetie, should I have a white dress for the wedding? Or a red one?"

"Whatever you want, I'm sure it'll be great." George Michael sipped a beer, staring at the TV.

George Michael's unparalleled enthusiasm for his current situation had caused him to take on one of the Bluth family's favourite past times- alcohol.

The news channel of Michael and Maeby holding hands on the streets of New York, replayed over, and over, and over again, filled their living room, and the level of rage inside George Michael.

For George Michael, he still had an axe to grind, and was feeling between the Bluth ego and self pity that his father, the one who was now causing his problem, had tried to prevent wearing off.

He crushed the beer can in his hand. "Look, Michael and Maeby are in New York at the moment."

"What are they doing there?"

"I think he took her there. I don't know if she knew where she was going."

"That's…kinda creepy."

When you put it that way.

George Michael leaned back into the couch. "I'm just worried about them, that's all."

"Well there is quite an age gap."

"She's so young, yeah. I never hear good things about those kind of relationships, you know, TomKat, and Woody Allen and his wife. And there are guys that seem to 'upgrade' their wives…like Rod Stewart."

"Yeah, I didn't realise how many examples there were! And I mean, he's like full-on commitment, I remember when I was dating him, he wanted to get serious really quick."

As did Rebel at the time, but memory is like a rat stew- it doesn't improve with age.

"I think he would have wanted to have had kids right away."

"Yeah Mom wanted to go for her career, but…"

Michael had never discussed when he and Tracey had decided to have children with anyone. Think about it, it's kinda weird to be bringing up certain performance issues. Being involved in a theatre troop at the time being an understudy for Peter Pan, he had little time for trying for a baby. Regardless of Michael's performance or eventual lack thereof when he was kicked off the cast, Tracey was a woman who married Michael quite young, knowing he wanted kids.

"He does stuff like that, you know."

"That is just so sad. I just wish there was something we could do."

"Possibly there is."

"What?"

"Maybe you should talk to her. You know, as you, she'll listen."

"Well, I have to do something."

"Rebel, you can do anything." He touched her arm.

"Aww, you're so sweet!"

George Michael smiled.

He really was. Especially when he was getting his fiancée to try to talk his ex out of dating his father. The Bluth Family had operated on unspoken dynamics – that Michael was the compass, and the others could be pulled into direction they all needed to go. But as the agitator, he was suddenly repelling them, and all the members were flying in different directions. So as Michael had to deal with multiple rats in the Bluth ranks, he was about to find out that the good news of his relationship to Maeby could not be contained for long.

At her office desk, Lindsay's phone rang. "Goran, what can I do for you?"

"I thought there was no incest in your family, Congresswoman."

"What could you be talking about?" She replied acidly.

"Your brother and daughter were seen holding hands in New York. And more."

"More?"

"I'd rather not have to throw away this phone, it's all about as appealing as rat stew. And all the major news channels are running shots of them holding hands."

"Sounds like they're having a good time over there, must be something in the air. Or the water? Maybe there's your story!"

"Tell me why I wouldn't run this as front page news."

"Oh no, don't do that. Please don't do that." She echoed sarcastically.

"What's your game, Congresswoman?"

"I don't have a game, I'm just concerned about my family."

Goran mumbled, and hung up.

So the distraught Congresswoman delivered the two lucky relatives who were about to take more than one for the team, the good news.

Lindsay redialled. "Hello!"

"Lindsay, how has it come to be that every major news outlet in the country is going into bat for a tribe that couldn't even keep themselves together?"

"I don't know, brother. But listen, between whatever you're doing to my daughter and being on a small island swarming with journalists, the rest of the country is about to hear about that 'arrangement'."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Love. Mutual admiration. Respect."

"Wow, there must be a lot of money involved. Carry on. Me and my girlfriend here, for your information, will just keep running your major donor."

"You keep telling yourself that, Mr CEO. Buh-bye!"

"Oh I wi…" He heard dialtone.

Maeby watched on as her boyfriend squirmed from his in-law cum sibling's phone call.

"What's the story that's got you so delory? What's Mom done?"

"The party may be over in New York. The national media know."

"What do we do? Deny?"

"Yep."

"What do we do now then?"

"I don't know. We have to go back soon, we could go for a walk outside the hotel?"

Facing the marching army of rats in the ranks, Michael was again about to learn the cost of indecisiveness. The media vultures awaited their prey, with Michael and Maeby walking straight into the venue.

A media crush lay in wait to greet them, a patchwork of shiny equipment and human beings.

"Michael, Michael, what do you have to say to your investors?"

"Michael, how many sites were disturbed?"

"Mr Bluth, will you be stepping down now?"

The pair promptly turned on their heels and retreated, finally making a firm decision. Of sorts.

In the sanctuary of the elevator, Michael stated, "We're going back to Balboa Bay. Now."

Maeby leaned in and kissed him. "It's kinda sexy when you're so decisive."

What did we say about the benefits of being decisive?

"Well, let's make like Peter Pan and fly away."

But perhaps being decisive is not the only thing you need.

Maeby rolled her eyes. "Let me fix this." She dialled her phone. "Yeah, airport. Now. Out the back of…"

And with their belongings in toe, Maeby did what she had learned from her many years with the famous- escaping the clutches of the media.

"C'mon." She instructed Michael, as the trudged toward the kitchen, suitcases in toe. "Hi, I need to get out the back way, we have a cab waiting down there?" Maeby held out money.

"Room 932." Michael added.

"Certainly." The staffer winked.

But they knew who they were dealing with, and the New York vultures would not miss a scrap to scavenge.

"And we're going live to the back of the building now, where Michael Bluth and his niece and girlfriend are trying to escape."

Maeby and Michael dashed into the waiting cab, taking their luggage with them into the back seat, the TV crews rushing the front of the cab.

"Oh, you're those guys." The Hispanic Cab driver swerved, narrowly missing oncoming traffic.

"Yeah, what of it?!" Maeby demanded, losing her composure.

"Nothing, nothing, follow your heart sir and ma'am, y'know, you guys like each other, it's all that matters."

"Thanks." Maeby replied sharply.

Maeby had never been good at taking criticism. It may partly be because when her grades were bad at one school, her parents would just switch her to another. But Michael had taken on board one of her tricks.

He leaned forward. "Sir…I know you have priorities and things going on, but I just really need you to get me and her to the airport, as soon as possible." He handed the guy a handful of notes.

This time, Michael's decisive action saved him and Maeby from a fate worse than an unscheduled media conference – a media ambush. Because the operator at the cab company knew the famous Bluths had booked the cab, information which made its way to major news outlets, who bidded to get a slice of pie in derailing the ride. But Michael's quick thinking and cash had quashed their bid, and ensured they were only going one way.

"Thank you, Sir."

And but one block from the ambush, the cab turned south, instead of east, safely ferrying the hottest properties on the east coast on their way to their plane. And even more repeats of that shot that had warmed George Michael's heart.

"We believed we were going to see them enroute to the airport, but have seem to have lost them there, just to fill you in, the CEO…"

George Michael threw an empty beer can at the TV.

The two slightly more haggard lovers relaxed into their plane seats, contemplating the reception that could await them at the other end. Fortunate for them, private planes don't have schedules as easy to decipher as regular planes, so the big money Michael had paid to awe Maeby would prevent a number of aww's to investors, and they put their heads together on a multi-faceted strategy to deal with the media fallout.

"Deny?"

"Deny." Maeby nodded.

And then set out returning to base- Michael's office. Their audience had unfortunately, laid in wait, like scavengers on a lonely rat stew.

As the two climbed in, the cab driver remarked, "Oh, you're those guys."

"Yeah, what of it?!" Maeby demanded.

"Nothing, nothing. But you saw the [Beep] tour, right? My daughter wants to see [Beep] being made, do they include that?"

"Oh yeah, they shoot the [Beep] [Beep] and is Jimmy Fallon there, we saw him." Michael replied.

"But not [Beep] [Beep] [Beep]?"

"No, 'fraid not." He nodded.

"And [Beep] [Beep]? I saw her asking you questions on the TV, was she nice?"

"She was sure shouting loudly." Maeby added.

The cab stopped short of the front of the building, a media throng waiting outside.

"We should just tackle this. Throw everything at it."

"Yeah."

Michael approached the front of the building, Maeby by his side.

"Esteemed colleagues of the media, it has come to our attention that people are claiming myself and my niece Maeby Fünke have been seen cavorting in New York. I know there has been rolling coverage of footage of us holding hands…"

George Michael might have posted an abusive message on Facebook regarding that, having had seven Girlie Girl Beers to encourage him.

"But let me assure you, and the investors, that Maeby and I are work colleagues. We had to go to New York on business, to research and ascertain new directions for the Bluth Company, a company we have both worked far too hard on, to squander on a frivolous rendezvous. Myself, and this office, deny that there has been a casual romantic rendezvous between us, and restate that we are, colleagues."

Fortunate for Michael, everything he had said, was true, albeit by omission. It was also fortunate that the wheel on Goran Crack's car had done just that, and it wasn't spinning him anywhere. Michael's next spinning of his story was also to be next successful.

"Regarding us holding hands, Maeby found the city quite daunting at times, and as her Uncle, I felt it was responsibility to comfort her."

"A woman who has produced ten films?"

"Who had never been to New York." Michael restated.

"Even the kid in Home Alone managed New York." Laughed another reporter.

"There seems to be a higher than average rodent population in New York, and she found that…concerning."

Behind the news desk at five, the bubble-headed bleach blonde flicked her eyebrows. "Modern day pied piper of Hamelin? Michael Bluth claims his grab-assing of his niece is due to New York's rat population. New York rejects the claim, and says the Bluths aren't welcome back. "

George Michael and Rebel were as confused, as how a man who was trying to escape the rats, controlled them as the Pied Piper had.

Turning away from the living room TV, they exchanged looks.

This, however, reminded Rebel to meet with Maeby, and the two met to discuss the concerns.

Rebel watched Maeby approach the outdoor table at the Club, sporting a smidge of makeup and looking very refreshed. "Maeby! You look fabulous!"

Maeby gazed at Rebel in her red bouffant hair and bright lipstick, noticing bags under her eyes and a slight pallor. "Thank you. You look…nice." She sat opposite Rebel.

"Anyway, how have you been?"

The two women compared stories, until it came down to talking about the two men they had in common.

"…And I know you never did that with George Michael, but it's just different."

Maeby actually had, and it wasn't.

"I'm sure it is."

"But sweetie, I'm really worried about you." Rebel leaned forward. "I'm a bit older than you, so I have more experience, I guess, and a kid, he's great but…what I'm trying to say is, but I can see what's going on there. You know Michael will keep pushing you to move forward, I mean that's what he kept trying to do to me. He's an older guy and they're all the same…TomKat, Woody Allen, love him but still with his adopted daughter? And Rod Stewart and his wives, he remarries young women every time? You know, the woman before me that Michael dated. Then I am a bit older than you. And…" She nodded at Maeby.

Maeby winced slightly.

"You're young, with your entire life ahead of you, no kids, no commitments…I know him as well as you know him, and Michael, is well, Michael."

Maeby hadn't had her options put as starkly as Rebel had outlined them, with two very different pathways to mull. Maeby Fünke had always looked for the easy way out in life – to school, to work, to relationships. And she'd always found them. But suddenly, wading up to her waist, possibly her neck, she was too far in to just wade out easily, and like a drowing rat in stew, she knew she had to make some kind of decision. But it wouldn't be until others were made, at a hastily called family meeting. George Senior seemed to be the only one talking to her side of the room, and had offered them a chair. A dining chair, but somewhere to sit, nonetheless.

At the penthouse, Lindsay, Lucille and George Michael sat on the long sofa, with Rebel and Buster on the side.

"No, we're fine." Michael insisted, Maeby by his side, standing closest to the door.

George Michael sunk forward, a beer in his hand. Lindsay clutched a short glass tall on clear liquid, and Lucille had her customary cocktail. Buster had a box of juice at the ready.

"You don't look fine, you're still attached to my daughter!" A tipsy Lindsay launched from the alcohol-influenced trench, a trickle dripping from the side of her glass.

"At least I'm not leaking everywhere and destroying the family company!" Michael fired back from the dry trench.

"The media saw you, both of you, do you really think they're going to accept it?" George Michael shouted. "I mean, who tries to start relationships with their relatives?"

"Heir Heir!" Lindsay shouted.

Rebel stood up amid the chaos. "Woah woah woah!" she waved her arms. "Look, I don't know if it'll make any difference if I say something, and I don't know what's going on with you guys, and I don't know why we're all fighting, but I genuinely apologise." She tossed her bouffant back, shifting her weight on her wooden wedge sandals.

Given Rebel was not the problem, her apology was fairly meaningless.

George Senior then took to chairing the meeting. "This is exactly why I brought you all here, because I didn't put all my effort into this family so we would wind up having drunken fights. Fights, sure, I mean that's to be expended..."

"Dad, I have tried, I have tried my whole life, y'know and I just for once…"

"Michael, we'll deal with your…" he glanced at Michael and Maeby, "arrangement, some other time. But right now, we have a company that could start haemorrhaging money, and a Congresswoman that could find herself out of a job. Lindsay, you need your brother. Michael, you need your sister."

"Because as the Bluths we stick together?" Michael asked sarcastically.

"Because the Cuatro tribe never inhabited that land. They inhabited neighbouring land. Me and Oscar moved all their remains to that land twenty-five years ago so we could run tours. But nobody cared about a family of dysfunctional drunk layabouts."

An experiment successfully replicated twenty years later.

"So we just left them there. No, what Lindsay is going to do, is get the best team of geologists in the state to look over the land, find that out, and then just guide them to where the bones ought to be. You get the land back, Bluthton is back on schedule and Lindsay is seen to be looking after American heritage."

"What would we get out of this?" Lucille demanded. "I still can't get into the Balboa Club."

"And Michael will get us back into the Balboa Club."

"No, come on…!" Michael protested.

"Daddy, I won't do a thing for Michael, he has disgraced this family." Lindsay glared at Michael.

George Michael shouted, "Hit the nail on the Peg!"

"But if you ask, of course I will."

"There's daddy's girl." George Senior smirked.

Michael shot her a dark look.

"What are we going to do about," George Michael pointed at the two lurking in the passageway, "That?"

"I went on TV and issued a further denial." Michael insisted.

"How can you be running the company if you're distracted by this?" George Michael queried.

"Sweetie, Ganki needs access to the Balboa Club Bar again." Lucille gestured. "So you keep running your one the way you run…your own, and leave Michael to the family name."

She meant cash cow.

"How much longer do you think this can go on, Michael?" Lindsay demanded.

"I don't think anything, Lindsay. If you weren't so busy ratting me out, you'd see that this has gone beyond the thinking stage, and as much as you try…"

"Get to the point, Michael." George Senior interrupted.

"They seemed to have swallowed it. I say, we play it by ear."

Lindsay knew differently, but if she spoke up about Goran Crack and his threats, she would have ratted herself out, as well as the impending doom the company could be facing.

"Sounds like a plan. I'm in." Lindsay smiled impetuously.

"Good that we're on the same page." George Senior marched around his army as general. "Lindsay, whatever the hell happened this week, let's not hear about it again. George Michael," he grabbed the can from his hand, "sit up, drink something sensible, and behave like a Bluth." George Senior handed him a bottle of vodka.

Funny, we didn't need to beep out that reference. Maybe because it was FOX, and not [Beep]. And there it is again.

"Lucille,"

Lucille smiled at George Senior.

"Stay beautiful."

And that was that. While Michael was shielding her from the insults, Maeby had been doing some thinking. And she knew what needed to happen next. Michael retreated to the office to lick his wounds from the cat fight in the penthouse, Maeby in toe.

Michael stared at the wall from his desk chair. "That went well."

Maeby paced his carpet. "Yeah. You folded on the membership to the Balboa Club."

Michael exhaled, despondent.

"But, it went better than Ganki's 60th? And the third Bluth Foundation fundraiser for GBA?"

Which had ended in a riot.

"That's true." Michael slumped over his desk and sighed. "The media hate me, the family hates me, my friends hate me…It's like the whole world is closing in. Perhaps I should resign."

Maeby clasped his forearm. "All those people don't matter. We'll be fine."

He looked up and smiled through sad eyes.

"I'll move in with you."

He brightened, and took her hand, kissing it.

"We'll make our way through this. We'll stick together."

"Rome wasn't built in a day."

"It wasn't. But one thing."

"Yeah?"

"If you keep saying that, I'll have to strangle you."

Michael grinned mischievously.

On the next episode of Bluthton, Michael remembers further fragments from the day Lindsay and him met the floor of her office.

Michael leaned down, finding a receipt in his top drawer, stating he was dropped off at the model home.

Michael had been laid in the back seat of the cab by the driver, the background of the cab zooming through various bits of California, Balboa Bay, and eventually the desert of the model home. Around him, numerous passengers enter and exit the cab, one drinks a beer, another two make out, one younger one poking Michael with a stick, until the driver asks exasperated,

"Sir, you must tell me where you live?"

"GOB is stuck in prison! I must get him! 1 Lucille Lane, Newport Beach…Good Sssurr…"

"Why do all Congressmen offload drunks onto me." He muttered.